The Meaning of Sacrifice
by GreenLoki
Summary: After a battle gone wrong, Tony Stark is left to pick up the pieces, wondering if such a grave mistake will cost him the one thing he truly holds dear - Steve Rogers.


The Meaning of Sacrifice

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This was written as a prompt for Cassy27, but I thought, since it turned out so well, I'll just post it. I hope you all enjoy.

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There was a lot about that fight that Tony couldn't remember. He couldn't remember the shots that were being fired. He couldn't remember the faces of the men responsible for such a gruesome attack. He couldn't even remember the walk back to the Tower, the clunks of each footfall sounding against the asphalt due to the weight of his Iron Man suit. He was told that it was bad, though, and Tony believed them. The Hulk had a difficult time reigning in his anger, the force behind his fury enough to blind him. Clint had fallen from a two-story building and broken his knee. Bucky Barnes hadn't been pleased about that. And even the infamous Black Widow didn't make it out unscathed, her black suit torn in several places, bleed seeping through each gash.

The one thing, though, that Tony remembered, the only thing about that fight that he could re-call with such precision, such accuracy, was the look on Steve's face when he was shot in the neck. He could clearly see the look of shock on his face, the pain that poured through his eyes. Though Tony didn't know why he was shocked. It was all done in the name of saving him.

The others had told him that it wasn't his fault, that there was no way that he could have known that an attack would happen at the downtown complex where Tony was meeting with a local charity that he had started. There was no way. But that didn't stop Tony from hating himself, from wishing that it was him that was lying in that hospital-bed, and not Steve. Because if he had been prepared, if he had remembered to wear the bracelets that would bring the Iron Man suit to him, if he had charged his phone, if he had re-scheduled, because he really didn't want to attend the event anyway. If he had done _anything_ different then Steve wouldn't have gotten shot defending him, _saving_ him.

But there was nothing. Steve was lying in that bed with a hole in his neck and Tony was sitting outside of the room, his elbows propped up on his knees with his head in his hands, willing himself to stand up and at least _see_ him, to at least see what his carelessness had done to America's hero, _his_ hero. He couldn't, though. His body seemed to repel away from the door every single time he tried. It was as though he physically could not cross the barrier that divided Steve's room and the hallway. And every time he had reached for the knob, his hand had stopped, hovering over it. He just … couldn't.

So he sat and he waited. For what, he didn't know.

Leaning back against the hard, plastic seat, Tony's eyes drooped. He was tired, his body sore, and he was pretty sure he smelt horrible. He knew he should probably leave, should head back to the Tower for an hour or so, nap, shower, eat something besides the occasional pudding-cup that a nurse gave him from time to time. Like all the other times that the thought crossed his mind, it whistled on by. There was no way he could leave, not without knowing the status of Steve, not without knowing that he would be okay.

He must have passed out, his eyes winning and shutting against his will. It was unrestful and uncomfortable and the memory of Steve jumping in front of him, putting his body in the line of fire, taking the bullet for him played over and over, as though his own mind was against him. His eyes blinked open, his body on instant alert, tense. His heart was hammering against his chest, but he didn't move, remained perfectly still. Tony didn't know why he couldn't move. He wondered if it was just his body scouting his surroundings, ensuring that there was no danger. Perhaps it was just a moment of panic, his body freezing up on him, unable to register what his brain was telling the rest of his muscles. He could hear noises, voices floating here and there, moving past him, drifting further away. He could tell that he was in a somewhat narrow place, the walls a mixture of white and blue.

Whatever it was that was causing his body to freeze and his mind to cease working, it caused the noises around him to jumble together, the colours and his surroundings all blending together, swirling before his vision. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, abdominal muscles cramping together, heart-rate spiking –

"Tony." A voice called, sounding far too close for comfort. "Tony, you're sitting in a hallway of General Hospital. You're sitting outside of Steve's room."

 _Steve_. Tony jerked, his head snapping up from the cricked position that it was in, pain shooting from the bottom of his head, all the way to his shoulder-blades. He hissed and moaned, a hand coming up to clamp around the sore area. Slowly, his surroundings seemed to even out, voices separating to where Tony could hear bits and pieces of conversations from individual places. The whites and blues on the walls, such comforting colours, stood stark and vivid before his eyes. Turning his head, Tony found the seat beside him occupied by Bucky. He felt a lump form in his throat.

"Relax, Stark," Bucky said, as though sensing the panic that was bubbling just beneath the surface, "nothing to report yet."

"How is he?" Tony forced the words out, his voice sounding scratchy and broken – too broken for him to be comfortable with, but he didn't think too much on that. He had way more important things to worry about.

Bucky looked tired, drained of energy. Tony could tell by the way his shoulders were slightly hunched, the way his hair appeared more haggard, tangled. He could understand that. He was Steve's best friend and he had witnessed what happened, experienced the same amount of fear that Tony did. Granted, he had no idea what happened when Steve hit the ground, blood pooling around his neck, but Tony could assume that it was something not good. Tony wondered if Bucky was angry at him, if he was there to tell him to leave, to get as far away from Steve as he possibly could, because he would not allow Tony to hurt his best friend ever again. The thought had dread seeping throughout his entire body. God, he didn't know what he would do if Bucky told him to do that. His world currently revolved around sitting in that seat, in waiting for an update.

"He's fighting." Bucky sighed and leaned back in his seat. His gaze was locked on the door, as though he was contemplating going in, seeing for himself that Steve was in there, that he was, in fact, fighting. But that word – _fighting_ – left a sour taste in Tony's mouth. It sounded liked Steve's body was straining to work, and while Tony knew that a bullet to the neck was something serious, fear still trickled down his body, causing him to curl into himself. God, he just wanted to see if he was okay. "You really smell bad, Stark."

It was a jibe to get him to smile, to calm the nerves that were bundled together, but Tony didn't take the bait. He looked down at the checkered tiles that lined the floor beneath his feet. "I can't leave."

"So you're just going to sit here in your own sweat and grime and wait? Jesus, Stark, we're all worried, but –"

"How can you not hate me for what happened?" Tony had no idea where that question came from, but it slipped from his lips before he had the chance to think about it. But after it was said, Tony couldn't find it in himself to really regret it. The question seemed to have taken Bucky off guard, his eyes widening slightly at how vulnerable he sounded. And he was sure that he did sound pretty weak, but Tony didn't care. He needed to know. "Steve wouldn't be lying in that bed with a hole in his neck if it wasn't for me."

Bucky was silent for a moment before he answered. "You had no idea what was about to happen. You had no fucking clue that a dozen crazy assholes were going to start shooting up downtown Manhattan. Steve did what he always does, and that's put his life on the line to save those in need. He wouldn't regret what he did. You know he wouldn't."

Tony shook his head. Deep down, he knew that Bucky was right. Of course, he was. But that didn't stop the guilt that radiated throughout his entire body. "It wouldn't have happened if I had been prepared, if I had been aware of what was happening around me."

"You're not perfect." Bucky said. He looked casual in his seat, despite how uncomfortable the hard plastic was, and Tony had to bit his tongue to keep from snapping at him. He knew that he was only trying to help, but Tony honestly didn't know if he wanted the help or not. It felt better to wallow in his pain at the moment. "Sometimes shit just happens. And there is nothing you can do about it."

He eventually did leave the hospital. It wasn't under his will, though. The staff had started to complain about him hanging around, patients had been staring at him, growing anxious at the dirty man sitting around, looking lost and so completely gone. Natasha had picked him up and took him back to the Tower, where he had quickly locked himself away. Natasha had told him on the drive back to Stark Tower that Bruce was calm, that any damage that he inflicted in his blind rage had been minimal. There were no casualties in his out-break. Clint was doing all right, as well. When Bucky wasn't at the hospital, trying to get information out of doctors about Steve's condition, he was hanging around Clint, taking care of him and generally being both a nurse and a nuisance.

The talk had been good during the drive back to Stark Tower, but the second Tony got out of car, he was gone. The last thing he wanted was to talk to the others; the last thing he wanted was for them to see his face. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Tony didn't know what he was expecting from the others. Natasha hadn't said and Tony was too afraid to ask. Would they be angry with him, ashamed? Were they blaming him for what happened to Steve? Along with the guilt that he was harbouring, fear and uncertainty flowed through his veins, causing him to seek solitude on his own private floor. He didn't even want to talk to Jarvis.

He bathed, he ate, and he attempted sleep. He'd give himself those few hours before he snuck back out of the Tower and made his way back to General Hospital, back to his uncomfortable seat. Whether or not Steve wanted to see him when – _if_ – he woke up, Tony would make sure he was there.

He had to.

It took three days for Steve's hospital door to open, three days of waiting and suffocating in self-deprecation. When that door opened, Tony honestly didn't know if he was dreaming or not, because he couldn't believe it. It was too soon. It had to be too soon. How could the doctors and nurses permit the doors to be open after a bullet to the neck? There had been so much blood, Steve's skin turning a pale, lifeless colour –

He stood to his feet and took slow, cautious steps toward the door. Would he even be able to step inside? Could he even look in? Tony didn't know. His heart was pounding furiously against his rib-cage, his breath coming out ragged and hoarse, as though he had been running a marathon. God, he was so scared of what he would find. Was Steve even alive? Would he walk in on a body covered in a white sheet, a lonesome nurse storing away machines that had once shown life? Or would Steve be covered in wires, his eyes shut, long, dark lashes flat against his cheekbones?

Apparently, he had greatly underestimated the serum that was flowing through Steve's veins. When he made it to the door, when he finally permitted himself to look up from the floor and over to the bed, he was terrified to see that it was empty. Stumbling into the room, Tony felt bile rise up his throat and threaten to cover the checkered tiles. Steve was gone, had fucking died, and somehow between him nodding off, they had taken his body to the morgue. And he would have to go back to Stark Tower and tell everyone that Steve was dead and they would hate him so much for what he had allowed happen, that his carelessness had killed Captain America, their friend, their brother in arms, their –

Mind racing, Tony jumped at the sound of the bathroom door opening. Head snapping in the direction, his chocolate brown eyes widened at the sight of Steve walking out of the small room, a bright smile in his eyes. His colouring was good – _really_ good. His normal tanned complexion, the freckles and moles visible and beautiful on his skin. His cheeks were flushed and those eyelashes framed the brightness of his eyes. He was dressed in civilian clothes, as though he was getting ready to leave the hospital. Dark jeans hugged his hips and thighs in all the right ways. A grey shirt clung to his torso and shoulders, stretching the material. It had always been difficult to find clothing that fit Steve's large frame, and now was no different.

But what caught Tony's eyes, what prevented him from deviating, was the white bandage that covered the left side of Steve's neck. He felt tears prickle the corners of his eyes, flashes of pale skin stained with red, frantic voices screaming and calling for help, movement all around him, and all Tony could do was stand and watch, shock freezing him on spot, the only time that he had ever frozen during a fight –

"You look like shit." Tony blinked at the sound of Steve's voice. In that moment, he was sure that it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard.

"Yeah," he said his own voice so unfamiliar to his ears, "been here."

Steve smiled. "Bucky told me that."

He briefly picked up on that comment, on how well-informed Steve appeared to be, but that was the last thing on Tony's mind. He was too pre-occupied with staring in awe at Steve; too busy gaping at how normal he was appearing, when all Tony had been doing was losing his mind, suffering through so much guilt.

"Are you okay?" He asked. The question came out in a whisper, something hushed and edging on heart-ache. Tony could pinpoint the second that registered with Steve. The brightness in his eyes morphed to something that looked like concern, his expression turning alert.

"I'm walking, I'm talking, and I'm breathing." Steve started walking closer, his steps slow and calculative, as though afraid that Tony was on the verge of a breakdown and was trying not to startle him too badly. "The serum healed the wound a hell of a lot quicker than ordinary surgery would have ever done. I'm okay, Tony."

The second his name left Steve's lips, Tony was closing the distance between them. He made it to Steve in less than four steps, his arms flinging around Steve's shoulders, gripping him tightly. His body was as firm as it looked – maybe more so. Tony could feel the hardness of his muscles, the steady beat of his heart, and the warmth that engulfed him when Steve folded his arms around Tony's back, pressing him even further against him. Closing his eyes, Tony breathed in the scent that was purely Steve, revelling in the feel of just seeing and talking and touching Steve, because _God_ , he thought he was dead, that he wouldn't be able to do any of those things ever again.

"It's okay." Steve's voice sounded closer to his ear. He could feel his breath on the side of his face and he knew that Steve was trying to sooth him. "Just breathe for me."

And only then did Tony realise that he was breathing erratically, his lungs sucking it and gasping out, striving for oxygen. He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, focussing on the way Steve's arms felt around his body – so protective and safe and loving and careful, as though he was afraid that he would break Tony if he held him any tighter. He focussed on the way his breath felt against his neck – warm and familiar and enticing enough to cause a shiver to run down the length of his back. He was truly there, standing before him, alive and well and whole and holding Tony tightly in his arms.

"You shouldn't have done that." Tony forced out, hating how emotional and vulnerable he sounded.

"Shouldn't have what? Taken a bullet for you?" Steve stepped back just slightly, just enough to where he could look into Tony's eyes – eyes that were sure to be wet with unshed tears. His cerulean gaze turned sharp all of a sudden, the grip he had on Tony's shoulders tightening. "I'd rather die than _not_ take a bullet for you. You hear me?"

Tony couldn't comprehend what Steve was saying, how he could even say it with such ease, with such conviction, as though it was a common occurrence. "You got shot in the fucking neck –"

"When I saw that that guy was about to shoot you, I didn't think. I didn't have to think. I love you, Tony." At the sound of those words, Tony's heart leapt up into his throat, preventing him from breathing. "If it means you living another day, I would gladly step in front of a hundred bullets."

"I'd really prefer you didn't." Tony choked out, lifting a hand and running it along the side of Steve's face. He couldn't prevent the tears from falling from his eyes, not when the serious look on Steve's face broke into a grin. For the first time in however long, Tony felt himself smile.

"Come on. I want to go home." Steve said. He wrapped an arm around Tony's waist, leaning down and pressing his lips against the top of Tony's head. "And you really do stink. When's the last time you took a shower?"


End file.
